Posts Tagged ‘ Tom Clark ’

Stalin As Linguist by Tom Clark Dispatches from the Poetry Wars

Source: Dispatches Poetry Wars

Stalin As Linguist by Tom Clark

Tom Clark – Poet, March 1, 1941 – August 18, 2018  | Academy of American Poets

Photo credit: Mark Gould

Source: Tom Clark – Poet | Academy of American Poets


Tom Clark, renowned poet and biographer, dies in Berkeley crash

The Berkeley man who died after being struck by a car while crossing The Alameda at 8:40 p.m. on Friday has been identified by friends as the poet Tom Clark.

Clark had just updated his blog, “Beyond the Pale,” on Friday.

Tom Clark, renowned poet and biographer, dies in Berkeley crash – Berkeleyside


Tom Clark and I discovered each other through our blogs. We granted one another carte blanche in sharing posts and comments. It was to his blog, “Beyond the Pale,” that I increasingly turned over the years for a deeper take on the world as he partnered poems and AP images with a journalistic fervor and original sense of humor even Horace Greeley would have enjoyed. I loved what you did, Tom, and I’m glad that you knew that. – Donna Fleischer, word pond


DSC_2252-1: photo by Bronfer, 29 April 2018

Beyond the Pale


TOM CLARK: Jorge Luis Borges: La otra muerte (The other death) | Ralph Waldo Emerson: The Past


[Provincia de Buenos Aires]: photo by . Lautaro Garcia ., January 2016


[Provincia de Buenos Aires]: photo by . Lautaro Garcia ., January 2016

Source: TOM CLARK: Jorge Luis Borges: La otra muerte (The other death) | Ralph Waldo Emerson: The Past

TOM CLARK: every particle of life is a reverie



2018-53 | Sonoma Coast, CA: photo by biosfear, 15 March 2018

Source: TOM CLARK: every particle of life is a reverie

Grasses by Tom Clark at Tom Clark Beyond the Pale

The big bluestem has roots six feet deep.
Indian grass grows with the bluestem;
switchgrass also ripples there in the wind.

Going west you get less rain:
the little bluestem grows waist high, and so does
the side oats grama, and the bearded needlegrass.

Further west, the short grass of the Plains grows:
the blue grama, knee high; and the buffalo
grass, which grows up to the ankles.

TC: Grasses, from A Short Guide to the High Plains (1981)

Tom Clark – Beyond the Pale – THURSDAY, 16 NOVEMBER 2017 YOU / coexistence


_DSC0831: photo by noppadol maitreechit, 23 April 2016


YOU (I) 
The door behind me was you
and the radiance, there like
an electric train wreck in your eye
after a horrible evening of waiting outside places in the rain for you
to come
only to
find all of them, two I know, the rest scullions, swimming around you
in that smoky crowded room like a fishbowl
I escaped from, running away from you and my André Breton
dream of cutting your breasts off with a trowel
and what does that matter too them or you now, but just wait,
it’s still early
to the children embroidered in the rug, who seem to be setting up siege
engines under a tree house full of midgets who look like you.
Where are you in this sky of new blue
deltas I see in the drapery, and your new friends wearing bamboo singlets
what are they doing down there in the moat waving tridents like stalks
of corn?
Me, I’ll be happy to see their blood spilled all over the bedspread
pavilions of your hands as an example. If you come home right now I’ll
scrunch your hat
between my thighs like a valentine before you have time to wipe them.
You are bright, tremendous, wow.
But it is the hour of one from the horrible tremendousness
Of youth is about to depart.
The boats are ready. The air is soft and you perhaps nearby
Do pass, saying “I am for you.”
This is as much as “Everything is great.”
But desperation builds up all the time.
Life is nothing
            more to me
strapped at the bottom
      of  the throat
Than majesty, I think. You are arduous as that
Ashtray.  Swallow me!  since
Your hands are full of streets
And I walk out upon the streets
And I think the girls are better looking, vicious, cool
And the men are flying kites and newsprint
Gets on my arms. I enter rooms —
Wild my steps like an automaton’s —
Where batons are linked into some residue.
A gull is eating some garbage.
The sky is an old tomato can, I think.
I buy a newspaper and begin to walk back.
Smells torture the kites like gulls. Wild gulls, and
It’s the tremendous sky of survival.
Few things are still visible to me. Baseball
Withholds the tremors. They fall, so
I drag you down and
You are akimbo as I stick it in
And everything is thunderous accordion April, great,
Risen from palms and hypntism. I run home
And dip my coffee in bread, and eat some of it.
Today I get this letter from you and the sun
buckles        a mist falls over our villas
with a hideous organic slush like the music of Lawrence Welk
I lay in bed all day, asleep, and like some nocturnal
beast. And get your salutation among the torn green numbers
in the sky over the council houses. And see your eyes when
                                                   the retired pensioners pass
me by the abandoned railway station — this is not nothing, it is not
                                                                                          the hymn
of an age of bankrobbers or heraldic days but it is to sing
with complete gaiety until your heart freaks. I love you.
                                                         And go down amid the sycamores to
summer. Wandering by the lake any way
seems lovely, grand, the moon
is a gland in the thigh. Tumble and twinkle as on the golf course apparel
lifts. And a door is opened to
an owl. It is snowing, and you are here on the bed with me
and it is raining, and I am as full of frets as a guitar or a curtain
and I am singing, as I sponge up the cat place. You
                                                     are heaped. A curtain
of belief keeps me away from the tombs
of imagery. I love you, I’d like to go.
The chords knotted together like insane nouns         Dante
you are in bed           in the dark copula you
of the musical phrase          a few star birds sing in the branches
their voices are tangled not high
now all of them are dark and some move            you
were a word in the wood of my life
where the leaves are words, some of them fucking
in obscurity their clasping is terrible and brusque
pain birds ache thru them            and some
are lighter and seem to suggest less
of death than of a viola da gamba player these
birds sweep past in the forest
of my hands on your chest,            as we move
out on the glowing sea of the tropics on an ice pack,             you,
YOU (V) (after Hölderlin)

Desert flowers (sunset): Tom Clark

O Earth Mother, who consents to everything, who forgives everything
don’t hide like this                                                        and tell

Her Power is sweetened in these rays, the Earth before her
conceals the children
of her breast in her cloak, meanwhile we feel her,

and the days to come announce
that much time has passed and often one has felt
a heart grow for you inside his chest
They have guessed, the Ancients, the old and pious Patriarchs,
and in the secret they are, without even knowing it,
in the twisted chamber, for you, the silent men
but still more, the hearts, and those you have named Amor,
or have given obscure names, Earth, for one is shamed
to name his inmost heart, and from the start however man
when he finds greatness in himself and if the Most High permits,
he names it, this which belongs to him, and by its proper name
and you are it, and it seems
to me I hear the father say
to you honor is granted from now on
and you must receive songs in his name,
and you must, while he is distant and Old Eternity
becomes more and more hidden every day,
take his place in front of mortals, and since you will bear and raise
children for him, his wish
is to send anew and direct toward you men’s lives
when you recognize him           but this
directive which he inscribes in me is the rose
Pure sister, where will I get hold, when it is winter, of these
flowers, so as to weave the inhabitants of heaven crowns
It will be
as if the spirit of life passed out of me,
because for the heavenly gods these signs
of love are flowers in a desert       I search for them, you are hidden

Tom Clark

Desert flowers (dawn)
: Tom Clark

TOM CLARK: Apprehension


[Dhaka]: photo by Muhammad Imam Hasan, 20 November 2015

Source: TOM CLARK: Apprehension

Tom Clark, July 7, 2016


A bee collects pollen from a sunflower in a field near Frankfurt an der Oder, eastern Germany: photo by AFP, 5 July 2016



TOM CLARK: In the Dark

God protect us from generalizations. There are a great many opinions in this world, and a good half of them are professed by people who have never been in trouble.

— Anton Chekhov (1860-1904): from At the Mill (1886)

GREECE – Migrants comfort each other after they have reached the Greek island of Kos. By @atzortzinis #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 13 August 2015